To The End
by DreamChaser011593
Summary: When John is kidnapped and left to the hands of the infamous villain Jim Moriarty, it is up to Sherlock to solve the case and find him before it is too late. But at what lengths will he go to save his best friend?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock's hands shook in confusion and anger. He stood in the middle of the tiny apartment living room amidst the flurry of papers and upturned belongings. The apartment was dead silent and the only thing Sherlock could hear were the clocks turning in his own head as he tried to deduce and solve the problem at hand. He headed slowly to the room where he hoped he would find the most answers. He clenched his teeth at the sight.

John's bedroom was a chaotic array of clothes, files, and broken picture frames. Sherlock let a flash of pain cross his face. He was gone. His best friend was gone. It had been a long night at the lab which had caused Sherlock to come home around 7 that next morning. He came home to find the apartment in ruin and John nowhere in sight. All he found was a note written in a handwriting that reflected the sadistic monster underneath. He pulled it out of his pocket for the 50th time, unfolded it, and carefully read it over and over again.

"Come and play with me. John misses you. – JM" Sherlock sneered, crumpling the small piece of paper tightly and chucking it against the wall, with a clear exclamation of frustration. He inhaled and exhaled quickly, letting the fury bubble inside of him, eyes turned toward the ground, fists clenched at his side.

"Sherlock?" a voice sounded from the hallway. Sherlock looked up when he heard the familiar voice. "_Mrs. Hudson," _he thought quietly. "_What impeccable timing you have._" He sighed, softened his face and relaxed his hands at his side. He turned and left the bedroom, meeting the frantic and confused face of his landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson," he greeted her nonchalantly. "As you can see," he continued as he passed her and headed toward the couch, "the place is a mess." He tried his best to distract her from the obvious break in that had occurred. "Do you mind cleaning up a bit?"he finished. He then sat down on the edge of the couch and placed his hands to his face, elbows propped up on his knees, the same motion he always did when he was thinking.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson snapped back. "I am not your cleaning lady!" Sherlock ignored her and continued to weigh his options, trying to find the answers he was seeking. "Clean your own ruddy apartment, will you? It looks like a tornado went through here," Mrs. Hudson continued. She then sighed and headed toward the kitchen.

"Fancy a cuppa?" she questioned.

"Hm," Sherlock sounded once in response. He didn't care about tea at a time like this, but he was too busy to respond. As Mrs. Hudson continued to ramble on about things more than uninteresting to Sherlock, he let the wheels in his brain turn quickly, looking around the room and taking in every minute detail he could that might lead him to John. "_Footprint on the carpet near the front door, stained slightly by mud and a little bit of blood. Size 13, taller man, bulky in stature, early 30s. Fingerprint on the coffee table, not mine or Johns, belonging to a taller man as well, probably in his late 30s early 40s. Fibers of clothing stuck on the corner where the living room and hallway walls meet, result of someone bumping into it, leather coat perhaps, belonging to yet another man, shorter than the first, 5' 11". That's three men." _Sherlock sniffed the air. "_Faint ghost of a certain aroma..." _He sniffed again. "_French cologne, Deauville. Strand of hair on the ground by the fireplace, brunette. Slight gray tone, older man, probably mid 40s. That's four men total."_ Sherlock felt another flush of anger rock through him. He felt somewhat violated knowing that three strangers had been in his apartment, had torn it to shreds, and had taken John with them.

"So, where's John got to today?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she came toward Sherlock, a cup of tea in hand. She suspected nothing of what had happened in the past few hours. Her question tore him from his world of thought and deduction. He stood just as she placed the mug in front of him on the coffee table.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out. Don't wait up for me." With that he grabbed his scarf and walked out the front door, buttoning his coat as he went.


	2. Chapter 2

John was dreaming. He was fully aware of that, and as the dream continued, he found he liked the idea more and more of never waking up. The past 12 hours had been torture, quite literally. His body ached and he had lost all strength. In rare, miraculous moments his dreams became his only escape. He was grateful enough that every so often, he found himself slipping into that deep sleep and dreaming of being home, safe and sound with Sherlock. He found it somewhat strange how in the midst of everything that was going on, his mind was still able to create such beautiful, comforting dreams for him, allowing him to forget his current predicament and escape, if only for a few hours.

His state of bliss did not last long however as he was suddenly jolted awake by a sharp pain. He gasped and his eyes flew open in shock. His eyes focused and he found his torturer standing in front of him, a newly bloodied knife in his grip. John winced and looked down to where the pain was coming from. His right shoulder was bleeding heavily, a fresh stab wound very present. Blood began flowing freely as gravity pulled it down his arm and to the ground. John grimaced and looked away from the wound. His whole body ached at the small movement and he tried his best to reposition himself. It proved difficult in the end. His hands were constrained above his head, his wrists taking most of the force as gravity pulled against them and his skin rubbed raw against the rope holding it all together. His clothes were torn and shredded, for he had been whipped and beaten practically nonstop since he had arrived there. His whole body was bruised, and as his skin dripped blood from numerous locations on his body, a small pool of it had begun to form around his feet. He let his body relax again the ropes, finding slowly as every hour passed that he couldn't even hold his own weight anymore. His legs relaxed and he hung there helplessly.

A blow to the face jolted John from the numbness that his body tried to offer him. He bit his tongue against the outburst of pain he felt coming on. He was a soldier. He had been trained on how to deal with pain. But it didn't mean that it hurt any less. John looked up into the eyes of his attacker but shut his eyes tight once more as he saw the man raise his fist again, ready to strike. He tensed, anticipating it.

"That's enough," a voice sounded in the distance. John looked up through blurred eyes of fatigue and pain. A shadow stood in the distance, masked by the ominous darkness of the room. John didn't need to see the man's face to know who it was.

"Moriarty," John said with as much venom in his voice as he could manage. But his voice only came out raspy and weak. Jim Moriarty laughed at this.

"Poor John. Poor, poor Johnny. So alone. So...broken." Moriarty laughed again, his voice squeaking in delight at the words he said. He stepped forward into the light, provided by one single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He continued.

"And how are we holding up? I hope you like the accommodations we have provided for you. I did try my hardest to get you the very best room." Moriarty giggled. He locked eyes with John and giggled once more, hoping to get some reaction from his prisoner. John did not respond. Moriarty sighed. Suddenly, his face dropped and the glow in his eyes faded. He walked forward slowly until he was almost directly in front of John's face. He sneered.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked menacingly.

"Wh...what?" John responded weakly, somehow confused by the question. Wasn't Sherlock at home? With a deep guttural sound in his throat, Moriarty closed the distance between them and grabbed John's face with one hand, his fingers squeezing tightly around his jaw. John tensed up as Moriarty looked him straight in the eye.

"Where. Is. Sherlock?!" he questioned again, practically screaming in John's face, breaking up each word and adding a frightening force to each one. Did they not know that Sherlock was at home? John bit his tongue. He knew if he gave in, Sherlock would be in trouble and Moriarty would win. He braced himself for the pain he assumed would come for not complying. With a growl, Moriarty threw John's face away and turned around. He rubbed his jaw with his fingers and laughed darkly. John kept his eyes locked on him, not sure what he was planning next but suddenly without warning, Moriarty turned around quickly, flicked a long knife out of coat pocket and attacked John. John screamed loudly as Moriarty dragged his sharp blade deep in John's skin, leaving a long bloody laceration from his left shoulder down to his naval. John heaved and gasped, attempting to calm and distract himself from the immense pain so he could breathe. He shut his eyes tight as his whole body began to quiver. He dropped his head toward the ground as Moriarty turned on his heel and cleaned his knife with a black handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. With one last wipe, the blade was clean and Moriarty turned back toward John, holding the knife at his side while placing his handkerchief back in his pants pocket. He knitted his fingers together around the handle of the blade and stood calmly in front of John. He sighed.

"I really didn't want to do that, John. You know how it hurts me seeing you in pain, but see, you're just not cooperating like I need you too, and that really hurts my feelings." John continued to look at the ground. He was so weak, so tired... He heard Moriarty snap his fingers then, and more pain followed suit. The other man in the room grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back sharply, forcing him to look directly into Moriarty's eyes. He spoke.

"John, don't think for even one second that I won't kill you, that I won't take this knife and plunge it straight into your heart." John caught his breath and held it in anticipation. "Now," Moriarty continued. "I will ask you once more. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"


End file.
